Passage to Pontefract Page 6

  Poor old man, thought John, he was over anxious to tell people what a good husband he was now that he was so no longer.

  ‘I will prepare at once to leave for Bordeaux,’ he said. ‘And rest assured, I will let you know exactly how I find things there.’

  He sought out Blanche. She would be sad because of the coming parting, but she would understand, of course, that it must be so.

  Her women told him that she was with the Queen.

  Ah yes, he thought. Poor mother. She could not last long now. Every time he saw her he was aware of the change in her. She had lost the healthy rosy colour which had been with her all her life until the last year or so. Now there was an unhealthy yellowish tinge to her skin; and the dropsy was growing to such an extent that she could scarcely move at all.

  He went to the nursery. He hated to say goodbye to his children. It gave him such complete joy to gloat over the sturdy Henry. What a little man he was already! Just such another as I was, thought John. His eyes taking in everything, his hands eager to grasp all within his reach. My son. What is in store for you? I wonder. Could it be … a crown?

  There was a young woman in the nursery. She turned, startled, as he entered.

  The children ran to him; Philippa giving a grave curtsey, Elizabeth trying to do the same and abandoning the effort to catch at his knees. Henry was not to be outdone. He staggered towards his father.

  ‘My dearest daughters … my little son …’ He embraced them and all the time he was aware of the young woman watching him.

  Holding the children against him, he looked over their heads to her.

  She swept a curtsey to the floor. She remained there for a few seconds, gracefully poised with her dark red skirts about her. He noticed the bodice laced across a rather full bosom; her thick red hair hung in plaits one of which fell over her shoulder. The brilliant green eyes edged with incredibly dark lashes regarded him with interest. He felt a great excitement grip him.

  He signed to her to rise and come forward.

  Now he could see that she was more startling when close. Her skin was soft and white as milk – a deep contrast to the flaming hair and the black eyelashes, green eyes and red lips.

  ‘You are …’ he began.

  Philippa said shrilly: ‘She is Catherine … our new governess. Our father is a great great lord, Catherine.’

  Elizabeth said: ‘Yes, a great great lord, greater than the King.’

  ‘Hush hush,’ said John smiling. ‘You see my daughters have a high opinion of me. I believe the Duchess mentioned you.’

  ‘I am Catherine Swynford, my lord. My husband is in your service.’

  ‘Swynford,’ he murmured. And he thought: That oaf. And this glorious creature. He went on: ‘Sir Hugh. Yes, he has served with me. He is in France now, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. He is in France.’

  ‘And you are here to care for my children. I am pleased at that, Lady Swynford.’

  She bowed her head, and when she raised it her eyes were brilliant. It was almost as though some message passed between them.

  He turned to the children, but he hardly noticed them. He was so deeply aware of her.

  He left the nursery because he felt a need to get away.

  He went to his apartments and said that he would be alone until the Duchess returned from her visit to the Queen.

  He kept thinking of the governess. Catherine Swynford, he murmured. Ridiculous name. And married to Hugh! He supposed he was worthy enough but he was uncouth and she … she was a magnificent creature, there was no question of that.

  It was absurd to have allowed her to make such an impression on him. Had he not seen attractive women in his life before! But never one quite like this woman. What was it? Beauty certainly. But he had known many beautiful women. Many would say she was not as beautiful as Blanche his wife. Blanche was a poet’s beauty. Young Chaucer was aware of that. Aloof, to be admired from afar. Not so this Catherine Swynford. One would not wish to remain far from her. There must be an urge in all men when they beheld her to take her … to possess her … even those who were most satisfactorily married …

  This was ridiculous. He had not felt like this before. He was not by nature a promiscuous man. And yet in the presence of the governess he had felt an almost irresistible urge to throw aside those standards to which, since his marriage to Blanche, he had strictly adhered.

  When Blanche came into the apartment, he rose quickly, took her hands and held her in his arms. He was reminded momentarily of his father playing the uxorious husband after one of his sessions with Alice Perrers.

  ‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘what is it? You look sad.’

  ‘It is the Queen,’ she replied. ‘I fear she grows worse; every time I see her there is a change.’

  ‘If only they could find some cure.’

  ‘She is fretting … about the King …’

  ‘That horrible woman. How I hate her! I believe she flaunts her newly acquired jewels before my mother.’

  ‘And the Queen is too gentle, too eager not to hurt the King to complain about her.’

  John spoke fiercely against Alice Perrers. He had never hated her so much as at this moment.

  He led Blanche to a window seat and they sat there together, his arm about her. ‘I have to go away, Blanche.’

  She turned to him and buried her face against him.

  ‘I fear so, my love,’ he went on. ‘Edward needs me and my father thinks I should go.’

  Blanche said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps it will not be for long,’ he went on.

  ‘You will be fighting.’

  ‘There is always fighting. It is a man’s lot, it seems.’

  ‘When must you go?’

  ‘As soon as I am prepared.’

  She was silent and he said slowly: ‘I went to the nursery and saw the new governess.’

  ‘What thought you of her?’

  ‘That the children looked well and as full of high spirits as ever.’

  ‘They are in good health, I thank God. But I meant what thought you of Catherine Swynford?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘You do not like her?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘I am not sure. I had not thought she would be so young.’

  ‘She is serious minded.’

  ‘I was thinking that Swynford’s wife would be different. When he comes back to England she could be sent back to the country, I suppose.’

  ‘I am sorry you do not like her. The children are fond of her already.’

  ‘I would not say I did not like her. I thought she might be … perhaps a little flighty.’

  ‘Men’s eyes follow her. She is good looking and … something more …’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

  ‘The Queen is pleased at the appointment. She remembers the girl’s father. Philippa Chaucer is her sister, you know.’

  ‘It is a pity she is not more like Philippa Chaucer.’

  ‘The children seem very fond of her. I notice they like pretty people around them. Henry is already devoted to her.’

  ‘I hope that is not an indication of events to come.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘I hope he will not be too obsessed with pretty women.’

  ‘I dare swear our son will be a normal man. In any case he is already fond of Catherine Swynford. Of course if you would like me to send her away …’

  ‘Oh no, no. Give the woman a chance. I cannot judge her. I was in the nursery only for a few minutes. We have to think of my departure. Would you like me to take letters from you to Joan?’

  He was glad to be alone, and although he tried to dismiss Catherine Swynford from his mind her face kept presenting itself to him.

  That night he dreamed that he awakened and saw her standing by his bed, her red hair loose and her red lips smiling. She came in beside him and he put his arms about her.

  She said in that dream: ‘This has to be. You know it, John of Gaunt and so do I, Catherine
Swynford.’

  A disturbing dream and it showed clearly what effect she had had on him.

  He was almost glad that he was going away.

  Before he left there was more news from his brother.

  Pedro had become so unpopular in Castile where he was known as The Cruel that his half-brother, Henry of Trastamare, had been welcomed back by the people and when he had returned he had confronted Pedro and stabbed him to death.

  Nothing had been gained by the English from the battle of Nájara, that resounding victory which had seemed so glorious. Many English soldiers had died of dysentery and it seemed that the health of the Black Prince was impaired for ever; the money Pedro had promised to pay the English armies would never be paid now; Biscay which was to be the Prince’s reward for his help had not come into his hands and if he wanted it he would have to fight a fresh battle for it.

  It was disaster.

  And the King of France was rubbing his hands with glee.

  Yes, the Black Prince needed his brother John who must take his leave of his devoted wife, of his anxious father and his ailing mother.

  ‘I shall be back ere long,’ John promised Blanche. And he thought: I wonder if, when I return, Catherine Swynford will still be in the nurseries?

  * * *

  The Queen knew that she was dying. Steadily over the last two years she had become more enfeebled. Her body was now so swollen with dropsy that it was a burden to her and she could feel no great sorrow at leaving a world which had lost its charm for her.

  As she lay in bed she thought of the past when she had been so happy. So vividly that it seemed like only yesterday did she recall the day Edward’s envoys had come to Hainault to choose a bride for him and how fearful she had been that they might select one of her sisters. And how they had laughed when he told her that he warned his ambassadors that it would be more than their lives were worth to bring him any but Philippa. So happy they had been, so much in love – a boy and a girl no more. And when they grew up, the love between them grew stronger and they had had a wonderful family to prove it to the world.

  Happy days – but past. So many of the children dead and herself nothing but a mass of unwanted flesh that encumbered her like a prison from which she longed to escape.

  Life was ironical. Some lived too long. Others were taken before they had had a chance to live at all. Oh my sweet Joanna, dying of plague in a foreign land. My dear Lionel who left us in the prime of his manhood. Mary and Margaret smitten down so suddenly. And all the little babies.

  Such tragedies! And yet such joys! That was life; and none could escape what fate had in store be they kings or queens.

  There was little time left.

  She said to those about her bed: ‘It is time to send for the King.’

  He came at once, hurrying into her apartment and throwing himself on his knees by her bed. Edward, her King. Instead of the ageing man he had become, she saw the bright-eyed flaxen-haired boy, so handsome, so vital, a leader in every way.

  Oh it was sad that youth must fade, that ideals be lost, that will o’ the wisps must be pursued when the wise know they can only lead to danger. It was sad that lives must be spent in making war in hopeless causes.

  Oh my Edward, she thought, if only you had been content to be but King of England. Why did you have to fight these hopeless battles for a crown which could never be yours?

  But it was all over … for her. Death was calling her away. She had played her part in the drama. She must leave it to others to finish.

  ‘Philippa … my love … my Queen …’

  His voice seemed to be coming to her from over the years.

  She said: ‘We have been happy together, husband.’

  ‘Happy,’ he echoed. ‘So happy …’

  There were tears in his eyes, tears of remorse. She was dying. He might have remained faithful to the very end. Yet he had seen that witch Alice and had been tempted, and unable to resist.

  ‘Philippa,’ he murmured, ‘you must not go. You must not leave me. How can I live without you?’

  She smiled and did not answer him.

  Her youngest son, Thomas, had come to her bedside. Such a boy, she thought sadly. He will need his mother yet. He was only fourteen years old.

  ‘Edward,’ she said, ‘care for Thomas.’

  ‘I will care for our son, my dearest.’

  ‘I must speak to you, Edward. I have three requests.’

  ‘They shall be granted, dear lady. Only name them.’

  All she wanted was that he should see that her obligations were fulfilled – all the gifts and legacies for her servants paid.

  ‘And when you die, Edward, I would that you should lie beside me in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘It shall be. It shall be.’

  She was fast failing and William of Wykeham, the Bishop of Winchester, had arrived at her bedside.

  She asked to be left alone with the Bishop for a short while and her wish was granted. At the time there was thought to be nothing strange in this. It was natural that she should want to confess her sins and be alone with the Bishop before she died. But it was to be remembered later and then seemed to be of great significance.

  The King came back to the chamber of death and knelt beside her bed. She placed her hand in his and thus she died.

  * * *

  Blanche had left the children at Windsor in the care of Catherine Swynford and had set out for Bolingbroke Castle. In due course they should all follow her there. Blanche had felt a need to be alone for a while where she might mourn in solitude for the dead Queen.

  Philippa had been almost a mother to her; she had loved her dearly. Nothing would be quite the same without her to confide in; there would be no more of those calm judgements to be given, that innocence which was closer to wisdom than most men of the world possess.

  Yes, thought Blanche, she had done with life. She had lived long and happily – at least she had been happy until illness had affected her, and it was only of late that there had been an Alice Perrers in her life.

  Riding through the countryside she was shocked when one of her servants said they must not enter a certain village.

  ‘No, my lady, there are red crosses on the doors. The plague is with us again.’

  She said then they must change their route to Bolingbroke. The plague would not survive in the fresh country air.

  They continued their journey and at length came to the castle of Bolingbroke which would always be one of her favourite castles because little Henry had been born there and she could never think of the place without remembering the joy of coming out of her exhaustion to hear the glad news that she had given birth to a boy.

  Bolingbroke lay before them – looking less grim than usual because of the September sunshine.

  She rode into the courtyard. Grooms came running forward to take the horses. She alighted and went into the castle.

  She was tired and made her way straight to her apartments and had food brought to her there. In the morning she would make plans for the children to come to her. She was glad to think of them in the care of Catherine Swynford. She was sorry that John had seemed to take a dislike to her. It could only be because he had imagined someone homely like the good Philippa Chaucer.

  She ate a little and was soon asleep.

  When she awoke next morning a sudden foreboding came to her. She could hear no sounds of activity in the castle. She arose and went into the antechamber where her personal attendants should be sleeping.

  The room was empty.

  Puzzled she went out to the head of the great staircase and looked down into the hall. A group of serving men and women stood there, strangely whispering.

  They stopped when they saw her and stood as though turned to stone, gazing at her.

  ‘What means this?’ she demanded.

  One of the stewards stepped to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘My lady, two of the serving-men have been stricken. They are in the castle �
�� now. We do not know what we should do.’

  ‘Stricken,’ she echoed. ‘The … plague?’

  ‘’Tis so, my lady.’

  ‘Have any of you been near them?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  She stood looking down on them and as she did so she saw one of the women creep into a corner and lie there.

  ‘A red cross must be put at the castle gates,’ she said. ‘No one must go out. No one must come in. We must wait awhile.’

  There was a deep silence in the hall. Then it was broken by the sound of someone sobbing in another part of the castle.

  The plague had come to Bolingbroke.

  * * *

  Death was in the castle.

  Blanche thought: ‘Thank God the children are not here.’

  Three days had passed and she knew that several were already dead.

  ‘We must pray,’ she had said; and they had prayed; but they all remembered that when the plague entered a dwelling be it cottage or castle there was little hope of survival for its inhabitants.

  On the fourth day Blanche discovered the fatal swelling under her arms. In the space of a few hours the loathsome spots began to appear.

  Oh God, she thought. This is the end then.

  She lay on her bed and when one of her women came in she called to her ‘Go away. You must not enter this room.’

  The girl understood at once and shrank away in horror.

  Blanche lay back on her bed. She was fast losing consciousness. She thought she saw the phantom hare close to her bed. He appeared, did he not, when death had come to Bolingbroke.

  He has come for me, she thought. Oh John, I am leaving this life and you are not beside me to say farewell. Where are you, dearest husband? What of my children? My girls … my baby Henry. Dear children, you will have no mother now …

  This was not the way in which a great lady should die … her husband far away, her servants afraid to come to her bedside. But this was the plague, that cruel scourge which took its victims where it would. Cottage or castle, it cared nothing for that. But it was merciful in one way. Its victims did not suffer long.